


Ego Adsum

by ErrorHandling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Erotic use of air quotes, First Aid, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Smut, POV Castiel, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Post-Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12228810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErrorHandling/pseuds/ErrorHandling
Summary: Castiel is back and knows what he wants, but Dean stinks of whiskey and isn't making any sense. And why does a bunch of daisies make him a dick?  -- Reunion fic with angst, sarcasm, a little smut and a happy ending. Now complete, with 200% more nuzzling.





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel doesn’t recognize the cabin but he knows the type: set far back from the road, paint peeling, no power or phone lines; dirty windows squinting into the surrounding trees. There’s a sad truck on a patch of gravel; it might have been rusting there for years if not for the muddy tire tracks behind it. No sign of the Impala.

He stumbles with the very first step he takes, overcompensating for the effort it takes to move his body through this crowded landscape, this tumult of _things_ , after The Empty. He’ll give himself a few moments to get his bearings, perhaps...

No.

He’s not going to marvel at the cicadas whirring in the trees like chain-saws or track the paths of the honey bees nudging at the daisies by his feet. He’s not going to stare up at the screen door until someone comes out. He’s not going to rehearse his declarations and load them up like live rounds ready to fire. No more waiting.

“I need these. You’ll have to find some others,” Castiel informs the bees, and gives them a moment to scatter before pulling up the daisies. Their disgruntled buzzing follows him up the path but they’re being unreasonable and he doesn’t apologize.

The screen door stretches its splinter-filled maw at him, daring him to knock – but he is not here to ask for permission. The door squeals open and then slams shut behind him.

There’s only one room. The furnishings remind him of his forays into the world of vacant lots and underpasses: discarded things for discarded people. The kitchen area consists of a pump and a cast-iron stove. Flannel and denim bleed from a duffle bag on the brass bed and there’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on a wire-spool table.

He doesn’t like it here. They won’t be staying.

A man sits out on the back porch facing the woods, hunched under a blanket with an empty tumbler beside him on the arm of the Adirondack chair. Odd that he’s bothered with a glass. Even odder that he’s left the bottle back in the cabin. Castiel doesn’t call out even though there’s a name lodged in his throat, hard and rough and sweet as a peach pit.

The floorboards whine with each step but the other man doesn’t startle or even turn his head. Castiel stops on the sagging threshold and tries to wet his lips but his mouth is as dry as paper. Daisy petals flutter to the ground.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean shifts in the chair but doesn’t turn round. “Back again already?”

Castiel’s brand-new, wholly human brain seizes up. Sarcasm. He had been getting proud of his ability to identify it; leave it to Dean to continue making things difficult for him. “Yes, I’m back. How long have I been gone?”

“Not long enough. Thought I told you to take a hike.”

Those were words. In English, which Castiel speaks fluently. But he can more easily translate the hum of the cicadas. “Dean, you’re not— I don’t understand.”

Finally – _finally_ – Dean swings his head around to look at him. Eyelashes flicker and eyes widen but there’s no surprise; no joy. He’s too pale, his eyes are red-rimmed and his cheekbones have an unfamiliar sharpness. Castiel wants to smooth them down, erode those angles; a river’s caress, the kind that can wear down limestone, shale, given patience and time.

Dean swipes the back of his hand down his face. “And c’mon, will you drop the Swayze routine. Are those freaking _daisies_? That’s just… that’s just being a dick.”

Something’s very wrong. Castiel must have come back to the wrong time, or place – or universe. But no, there’s been no mistake; he can read the lines in the corners of Dean’s eyes like the hands of a watch. He needs someone to explain what’s happening. “Dean, where is Sam?”

“Hey! Hey, you keep away from Sam, you hear me?” Dean’s voice rips through Castiel’s fragile hold on this situation like a rusty saw. The other man is shivering, even though it’s warm enough that Castiel’s shirt is sticking to his back. “You know what? Forget it. You want to tangle with Son of Satan, go right ahead. Let me know how that works out for you.”

“Dean—”

“STOP SAYING MY NAME!” And he’s up and out of the chair, fists clenched, flannel bunching up in the crooks of his elbows. A flash of green - and then he’s gone, sidling past into the cabin in a noxious sweep of whiskey fumes.

Unacceptable. That Dean is intoxicated to the point of incoherence is unacceptable. That he’s turned his back on Castiel: unacceptable. That they appear to have come full circle, all the way back to that first night in the barn and the knife buried in Castiel’s chest, is _absolutely unacceptable_.

“So, this is it, huh?” Dean works the pump handle a few times until some water gushes out; it’s brown, but he splashes it on his face anyway. His words come out muffled from behind his dripping hands. “I mean it, you can drop the act. I’m not gonna run. I’m ready. Been ready for a while, I guess.”

“D—“ The space between is taut as a fishing line and ready to snap. Castiel should probably go outside before his frustration gets the better of him, but the door is a million miles away. “That’s enough for now. We’ll talk when you’ve sobered up.”

“’M not drunk.”

“Your speech is slurred, you can barely stand, and you reek of whiskey.”

“Don’t drink anymore. Not since you—he—” Dean gets lost for a minute, slowing down like a wind-up toy, and then mumbles, “Makes me numb.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“Not when feeling like shit is all you’ve got,” says Dean, swaying. The sarcasm and the spitting rage are suddenly gone; his masks are crumbling away, piece by piece. “Almost. Got a coat. A stupid, dirty, _coat _.__ That’s it. Know the last time I had a drink?”

“No.”

“Well I do. Forty-nine weeks, three days, and fourteen hours ago. Punched Sammy in the mouth. Tried to stop him from putting you—him, on the pyre.”

Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat. Time had no meaning in The Empty but that couldn’t be right. Days, he could believe. A week, maybe. But almost a year? Why would Chuck wait so long?

“All the bodies I burned – my dad, Bobby, Kevin, _Charlie_ – and I couldn’t even give him a hunter’s funeral like he deserved. Like he would have wanted. Some friend. Jesus. I still can’t even say his _goddamn name_.”

It’s true. He’s never once said Castiel’s name. And now Castiel desperately needs to hear it; to be invoked, summoned, so he knows he’s wanted here. But Dean leans harder against the sink, visibly shivering.

“Look, man, I know you don’t do the deciding--” a moment with closed eyes as Dean gets his ragged breathing back under control “--but if you could put a word in, or something… Not the pit, okay? I’ll take The Empty, that’s fine; heck, I’ll even take purgatory.” His voice breaks. “Just somewhere I won’t hurt anybody, okay? That’s not a lot to ask, right? I did do some stuff right. I tried. That’s got to count for something.”

Castiel plows over the squeaking floorboards, shoving away the wobbly wingback chair and striding past the wire-spool table. He tosses the daisies aside to wrap his hands around Dean’s face so he can’t escape. Water beads in Dean’s eyelashes and his lips part in a little gasp, allowing a droplet to slip underneath the plush bow. The hunter’s skin burns under Castiel’s palms, scalds his fingers, and the ache in Castiel’s chest flowers into flame.

“Dean. Just who – or _what_ – do you think I am?”

 At last Dean truly looks at him, meeting him with eyes as green and dark as the Atlantic, and quirks a knowing smile. “You’re my reaper.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning for non-graphic medical procedure.

A reaper.

The cabin’s stale air rushes out of Castiel’s mouth and before he can scratch out any words, Dean’s slumping into his arms. He’s not ready for it and he falls back hard against the stove. It grinds a few inches across the floor, kicking up the smell of rust and ash, and he ends up on his knees with the tail of his coat caught underneath him and Dean shivering against his chest.

The whiskey smell… it’s coming from Dean’s _back_. Castiel has only barely registered the wet patches on the flannel before he’s rucking it up along with the tee underneath.

“Oh, Dean.” Three long slashes, jagged and deep, cutting diagonal lines from his right shoulder down nearly to his waist. Puckered edges shining cherry-red; wet scabs seeping with yellow discharge. The hunter’s skin is hot and dry and his pulse, when Castiel finds it, is leaping like a rabbit’s. “These wounds are infected. That’s why you’re feverish. Did you even try to dress these, or did you just pour alcohol over them?”

Dean has the temerity to _chuckle_ into his shoulder. “Dude. ‘m not an octopus. Did have a dream like that once. It was kinda hot.”

“We need to get you to a hospital right away. Give me the keys to the truck.”

“Hospital? What for? Window shopping?”

“Dean, listen carefully. I am _not_ a reaper,” says Castiel, leaning back and tilting Dean’s head to force his glassy eyes to focus on him, “or a hallucination, or a ghost. You can feel me touching you. Here.” He lifts one of Dean’s hands and presses it to his throat. “Feel my pulse. I’m here. I’m real. I came back _for you_.”

“Yeah, Cas. Yeah. I know. It’s you. God, I—You’re beautiful, you know that? I should have told you.”

For a moment Castiel’s heart leaps and he waits for the slightest cant of Dean’s mouth towards his. But no. Because Dean doesn’t believe this is real. He’s smiling, but it’s dripping with bittersweet joy; a moment of willing self-deception.

“Damn it, Dean, I am _not_ _a reaper!_ Now give me the keys to the truck!”

“Won’t start. Think it’s a bad alternator.”

This is extremely bad news but Castiel can’t help feeling a little glad Dean hasn’t intentionally crawled here to die like a sick cat. “Fine. Then where are your medical supplies?”

“You new at this or something?” Dean grits out, shivering through another wave of pain. It’s a horrible parody of an embrace, with Dean’s breath hot and fast against Castiel’s neck for all the wrong reasons. “I told you, you can knock it off. Let’s just _go_ already.”

This time, Castiel does not even try to be gentle when he pinches Dean’s face with one hand and tilts it up. “Look at me, Dean Winchester. _Look at me_. I am not a reaper and I am no longer an angel. I am trying to help you but you are _not cooperating_ and unless we do something quickly you’re going to die. Now, we are going to move over to that bed, you are going to tell me where the medical kit is – I know you have one – and then I’m going to clean these wounds. You are going to fight off this infection because I did not come back to this confusing, messy, noisy, ridiculous life to watch you lay down and die like a… like a _little bitch!_ ”

Dean’s eyes stretch wide and he swallows, hard. But the sadness, the wistfulness, is gone. “Okay, Cas. Geez. You don’t gotta yell.”

“You… you believe me now? That I’m real? That I’m… myself?”

Dean levers himself up to bring their faces closer together. His lips – those sinful lips – are twitching. “Are you kidding? After that epic freak-out? That was one hundred percent pure _Cas_.”

“Dean.”

The color drains from Dean’s face. “Med kit’s in the truck,” he rasps before he slumps over into Castiel’s lap again.

“Dean? Dean!”

Castiel’s on his feet instantly, hauling Dean up with something closer to angelic strength than he should possess. Dean’s still conscious enough to shuffle along with his help and they make it to the bed without tripping over each other. The duffle gets swept to the floor and then Castiel is easing his patient down on to his side. No bedding or pillows, so he snatches the blanket from the back porch. It smells like wet leaves and wood smoke and Dean curls into a ball underneath it, shuddering hard enough to make the headboard rattle.

It feels like a violation when Castiel plunges his hand into the pocket of Dean’s jeans to search for the keys, and he feels his cheeks heat up when he finds Dean looking at him.

“I’m coming right back. Don’t go to sleep.”

Dean squints up at him in confusion. “Why not?”                              

“I don’t know. But I’ve heard them say that repeatedly on Dr. Sexy when someone is gravely injured, and Dr. Sexy is a very good doctor. ” He’s turning around with the keys digging into his palm when Dean snags his sleeve.

“Don’t go, Cas.”

As if he could. As if Dean wasn’t his center of gravity and he had any choice other than to revolve around him endlessly. “I won’t leave you, Dean. Never again.”

He’s through the screen door as fast as he can manage, flinching this time when it slams shut behind him. Stones skid under his feet as he races down the path to the truck. There’s nothing under the tarp in the back except scrap wood and shovels. The cabin is a mess of food wrappers and other trash, in stark contrast to the Impala. It’s intentional: Dean’s way of indicating how little this vehicle means to him. _I’m ready_. _Been ready for a while._

The med kit is under the passenger seat. He’s tugging it free when he spots the tan belt snaking out from under the driver’s seat. Not left behind in the bunker or stuffed in to the duffle; Castiel’s old coat is under the seat, where Dean only has to lean over a little bit to touch it while he’s driving. Suddenly the empty passenger seat is an empty, sucking hole of loneliness and Castiel vows that one day soon he will personally wedge a rock on top of the gas pedal and send this thing over a cliff.

The ground under his feet bangs like a drum as he runs back to the cabin.

Dean is still semi-conscious and shuddering with cold only he can feel. Castiel gets himself ready: sheds his coat and jacket, rolls up his sleeve, rinses his hands with water and then whiskey. The medical kit is the same one from the Impala’s trunk and impressively stocked, no doubt thanks to Sam. He roots through and lays out a sterile pair of gloves, gauze, disinfectant, pre-threaded sutures, bandages and tape. Best of all, there’s a gleaming scalpel rolled up in a tube of bubble-wrap.

A large bottle of pills with a worn label promises fever and pain reduction and a prescription made out to “Lou Gramm” rattles with a few doses of antibiotics. He makes another trip out to the back porch for the glass and then to the pump before he helps Dean sit up.

“You need to take these.”

“Okay,” says Dean. But instead of taking the pills from Castiel’s hand, he drops his mouth open. Castiel carefully places the two pills on Dean’s tongue and then lifts the glass to his lips. His hand still retains the heat from Dean’s mouth even after he’s put the glass down on the floor.

“Dean. We can’t get you to a doctor and I have no Grace.” The loss skates by, just a drag of nails across his skin, nothing deeper; he’s made his choice. And besides, finding himself in the middle of a situation for which he is wholly unprepared, with no help in sight, is so quintessentially _Winchester_ that he feels a thrill of kinship. “I need to drain the wounds, disinfect them, and sew them back up. So I’m going to do that. I’m going to take care of you.”

“I know, Cas. I trust you.”

“This is going to hurt. Do you want the whiskey?”

Dean makes a noise that could mean anything.

“Words, Dean.”

“No. S’okay. Had worse.”

Divesting Dean of his layers turns out to be a nightmare, particularly when Dean arches his back in pain and digs his fingers into Castiel’s thigh. So it’s almost a relief when he brings the scalpel, sharp and still wet with alcohol, over the worst of the infected areas. Marking Dean; scarring him, not for the first time, but for the same reason. And then Dean screams into the mattress and now it’s a race to get this done before Castiel finds out how far his nerves can stretch before they snap.

It’s tearing open gauze packets with his teeth and mopping up the fluids. It’s his free hand on the small of Dean’s back to soothe the twitches and shudders. It’s putting enough pressure behind the needle to make it pierce the skin and then slide through. Dean’s awake at first, biting back his cries and pressing his forehead into the creaking springs. Then he goes still and quiet and Castiel thinks he might have passed out. Until he starts to talk.

“They can’t stay in our room, Cas,” he says. “That’s final. They can live in the garage.”

“What? Who has to live in the garage?” Castiel asks as he ties off another suture. He glances over in time to see Dean’s annoyed little huff stir the ribbons of discarded gauze.

“They talk all night, man. I told you not to each ‘em English.”

“Who, Dean?”

“Simon and Adrian, dumbass. The guinea pigs.”

Castiel pulls his left glove up with his teeth and presses his palm to Dean’s forehead.

“Mm. Feels nice.”

“Your fever is still very high.” Castiel can barely able to hear his own words over the pounding of his heart. “I don’t think the Tylenol is working but we don’t have anything else. I’m going to give you another dose.”

When he gets back with another glass of rusty water and more pills, Dean’s eyelids are fluttering.

“You got to turn it over. Cas. That was the last song.”

He manhandles Dean far enough off the mattress for him to swallow the pills and then eases him back down. Then it’s back to cleaning out the wounds. The light is starting to fade and he has to lean in closer to get the stitches right.

“Ow. Quit it. Penmanship! Penmanship!”

“Dean, you have to stop moving.”

“No, _you_ have to stop! I said the word. The word that means stop.”

“Penmanship? ‘Penmanship’ means stop?”

“Only subject I ever got an A in,” says Dean, like that explains anything at all.

“You have lovely handwriting.”

“No, that’s not— Wait, what’s _your_ safeword? Did you tell me? I don’t remember. You have to have one. Beehive, or something. Not assbutt. No way I’m taking that one off the table.” And he laughs. No, he _cackles_ , and even though Castiel knows it’s delirium and it’s dangerous, he can’t help but smile back.

“Dean, if you don’t keep still I’m going to have to tie you to this bed.”

“ _Now_ you’re talking!”

Castiel ties off the last stitch with a sigh of relief that seems to come all the way up from his toes. Then there is the bandaging, with Dean still giggling occasionally, and the unbearable screech of the tape. Finally he pats the last bandage down and the tape falls to the floor, trundling away. Looking up, Castiel sees the dirty windows lit up in gold. An evening breeze blows in from the open back door, cool and smelling faintly of honeysuckle.

Dean is asleep.

He cleans up the mess as best he can, organizes their supplies and then returns to kneel beside the bed. Once he gets the blanket settled over Dean he stays there, keeping his hand on the back of Dean’s neck to ease his shivers as the fever ebbs and flows; hums an Enochian lullaby and finds he can carry a tune better than Jimmy, which makes no sense until he remembers some vague reference to “upgrades.” When the ache in his knees gets too bad to ignore, he climbs up on to the bed and curls himself down over Dean, mimicking the way he had often – in secret, of course – folded his invisible wings around his righteous man and protected him while he slept.

Before he can close his eyes, a face rams hard into his chest and hands clutch at his dress shirt, pulling him down. Buttons pop and scatter and hot tears find their way through the breach in the fabric. Castiel circles his arm around Dean’s waist, holding him tight to keep his wracking breaths from tearing open his stitches.

Dean cries silently and Castiel knows why: because John Winchester is awake on the other bed with a gun under his pillow and a bottle in his hand; because it would frighten Sammy to see his big brother cry.

“I’m sorry,” says Castiel, pulling the man he loves further into his arms. He’s sorry for leaving him alone; he’s sorry for all the times Dean had to cry in silence with no one to hold him. Soon his own tears spill out and slip down to mix with Dean’s, but he’s crying for a different reason. He’s got his fingers tangled in Dean’s sweat-soaked hair and he knows the fever has broken.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel has some things to get off his chest and out of his pants. Chuck, what did you do?

Dusk settles over them while Castiel combs his fingers through Dean’s hair. He’s always wanted to do this; imagined it many times while banished to the Impala’s back seat. The reality is better, especially when Dean breathes out and sneaks a hand under Castiel’s shirt so that they’re touching skin to skin.

Castiel waits. The fiddly knobs on the headboard dig into his back in three separate places and a broken spring pokes through his pants. The damp spot on his shirt is unpleasantly cool and the fingers on his right hand are cramped from holding the scalpel too tightly. But he knows Dean will speak eventually, once the twilight has thickened enough for him to feel safe. So Castiel waits.

“I’m sorry, Cas.” Dean’s words are whispered, like he’s afraid to crack the shell of darkness around them. He shifts over and away to lie on his side, making Castiel’s arms ache to reel him back in. “I really thought you were a reaper.”

“You were delirious.”

Dean makes one of his ambiguous grunts and shifts again until he’s half-sitting. The bed shakes a little; Dean’s arm is trembling with the effort of holding himself up. He wets his lips and the tip of his tongue catches a bit of moonlight; Castiel holds his breath and the air between them stills. Even the dust stops swirling.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.” And then his arms are no longer aching because Dean’s tucked in between them again, no longer clinging but pliant, allowing himself to be held. Castiel’s fingers immediately tangle back in his hair where they belong. “So you’re lucid now?”

Dean’s loose chuckle ripples through Castiel’s shirt. “Yes, I’m ‘lucid,’ weirdo. I— Whoa, there! Hey, easy now.”

“Nngh, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Put your head down. Cas, breathe. Come on now, buddy. Deep breaths.”

He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He’d been fine; felt fine. The bed shouldn’t be rocking like a boat. His stomach shouldn’t be trying to twist its way out of his body. But Dean is rubbing his back, stammering encouragements, and it helps. As soon as he feels like he can speak without vomiting, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey—no, don’t apologize,” Dean reassures him. “You got a little overwhelmed. It happens.”

Castiel’s fumbling hand finds Dean’s thigh just above his knee and clamps down, pinning them both in place so the bed won't toss them overboard. “You weren’t lucid before. You weren’t listening to me.”

“Don’t talk now, okay?”

“No! We need to talk. We are talking. I won’t stay quiet any longer. I won’t go back to ignoring how I feel.” _I love you._ No, that doesn’t help; he’s said that before with unsatisfactory results. He rolls his eyes at how unnecessarily complicated it all is and searches for the particular words with their particular shades of meaning. “I’m _in love_ with you.”

“I—” Dean breaks off with a high-pitched yelp when Castiel drives his fingers deeper into the hunter’s thigh. “Son of a bitch, Cas! That hurts!”

“I know you don’t believe you deserve anything good. I feel the same way about myself. But the world is not fair or just, Dean; you know that better than anyone. Denying ourselves what little happiness we can find serves no purpose, unless it’s the illusion we’re atoning for our sins. We’re not. The only way to do that is to help people, and we do that better together. I want to hunt with you, Dean. It’s unpleasant and dangerous and I’m ready for it, all of it. If a date with you means running through the woods in the middle of the night looking for monsters, I’ll do that. If you want to spend our wedding night raiding a nest of vampires, I’ll do that too. As long as we do it together.”

“Cas, slow down.”

“Also, I find you physically attractive. I understand that sexual desire is largely instinctual and that you may not feel the same; if that’s the case, there’s no need to explain. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it. This body is not a vessel: it’s no longer possible for me to take another physical form to accommodate your preferences. But even if you—”

“Cas!”

Dean’s hand slaps over his mouth and his other arm wraps around him like a vice. The unfamiliar pressure on Castiel’s chest startles him and he tries to gulp down more air but he can’t take a deep breath.

“Breathe through your nose.” Dean’s voice is gentle, at least, unlike his embrace. “We’re going to sit here for a minute, just like this, until you calm down, okay?”

Breathing through his nose helps. It also helps that Dean’s hand smells like whiskey and motor oil and scrap metal. Like the Impala, though that shouldn’t be possible. And faintly like the bunker’s enormous jug of store-brand laundry detergent. Like home.

“I’m going to leave my hand where it is, just for now,” says Dean slowly. “I want to talk about this, too, but a minute ago you were about to throw up on me, so sorry for wanting to take it slow.”

“I didn’t—” he starts to say, but all he does is dampen Dean’s fingers with his breath and earn himself a glare, so he stops talking.

Dean takes a breath and blows it out in a long, faint whistle. “Okay, here goes. I was too much of a chicken-shit during that whole Ramiel thing. . . I mean, you said it. All I had to do was say it back and I couldn’t. I don’t know; it felt like if I said it, you would die right there. There wasn’t any _after_ , after that; I couldn’t even imagine what that would be like with you and me, together. You know what I mean?” He leans in closer, resting his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m still shitty at this. Look, point is, I feel the same way about you. I love you, too.”

“Can I talk now?” Castiel says through Dean’s fingers.

“No,” says Dean, but there’s a warmth in his voice that makes Castiel want to laugh, even though Dean’s said nothing humorous. “As for being a dude. . . I’m pretty you know that’s not a deal-breaker since you spent years perving around in my dreams. And yes, goddamn it, you’re ‘physically attractive’ – you’re attractive as hell. You’re gorgeous, Cas. Really. Sometimes you take my breath away.”

Tapping the back of Dean’s hand finally gets the calloused fingers moved away from his mouth. “Then you will have sexual intercourse with me?”

Dean groans and reaches down; he’s adjusting himself through his jeans. Oh. “ _Son of a_ _bitch_ , Cas. That was the least erotic proposition in history and it still went straight to my dick.”

 _“Oh_.”

“Before this goes any further, we need to get one thing straight. You just proposed to me. Nope – no take backs!” Dean crows when Castiel tries to interrupt. “You said we could hunt vampires on our wedding night. That’s a proposal. Totally counts.”

Something was wrong with Castiel’s heart. When he’d heard talk of a pulse “fluttering” before he imagined it as a pleasant feeling. This made him feel breathless again and made his hands and feet prickle. “You want to marry me?”

“I think you’re making a shit choice and you’ll regret it one day but right now, I just don’t care. So yeah, what the hell, let’s get married! You’re here and I’m here and this is way more than I thought I’d ever get. I’ll probably screw it up by accident but I promise I won’t do it on purpose. That okay with you?”

Castiel can’t make his throat work so he nods instead. Dean’s eyes narrow with something hungry that Cas has seen only in his daydreams, and a few memorable times, out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

So Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s. They’re harder than he expected and he’s a little disappointed – they always look so soft and full, especially when he’s sleeping – and he’s thinking maybe this is just what a man’s lips feel like when it all changes. Dean returns the pressure with a kiss so tender that Castiel has to pull back to let the feeling bubble through him.

Dean’s voice is a hum in his chest. “That okay?”

“Yes. Okay. More kissing would be more okay. More kissing, Dean.”

Dean’s arms slide down around the small of his back and he presses closer. “You putting the moves on me, Cas?”

“I’m trying. But since you’re still using your mouth for talking, I think I’m doing it wrong.”

Oh, the way Dean laughs. . . _That’s for me; only for me_. Castiel was going to spend whatever was left of his speck of mortal life making Dean laugh like that. “Oh, it’s working, Casanova. Ha! Get it?”

“Hilarious. Why are you still talking?”

The kissing resumes and it’s so good Castiel can’t bear it. He wants to leap off the bed and run for miles but at the same time he feels heavy, like he’s drowsing in a sunny field. His thoughts turn to smoke and leave only a smolder of sensation; sparks along the paths where Dean’s fingers graze his skin. He’s too languorous to question it when Dean nudges him into a different position and then they’re kneeling together, one of Dean’s knees slotted between Castiel’s and. . . _oh_. “More of that, Dean.”

But Dean’s distracted with finding new angles at which to slide their tongues together – very much appreciated – so Castiel scoops his hands around Dean’s ass and hauls him a few more inches up onto his thigh and _presses_. Dean groans into his mouth and Castiel has to drop his head back as lust shudders through him.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, the first words spoken into Castiel’s mouth as he chases the kiss. “I thought of something. This is a brand-new body, right? It never belonged to Jimmy or been possessed by Lucifer or anything?”

Castiel grinds against Dean again and tries to think of a nice way to tell him to shut up. He wonders if taking his own pants off would send the appropriate message. He certainly would like to have his pants off; they were getting increasingly uncomfortable.

“That makes you a virgin,” Dean announces, the grin clear in his voice. “New body means you’re re-hymenated. Winchester rules.”

“Virginity is an odd human fixation. It’s meaningless.” He tries to get his stupid fingers to do something with his belt buckle; it’s stuck. _It’s stuck._ “The idea that a virgin is somehow ‘pure’ is a concept invented by patriarchal society to control women’s sexuality and limit their autonomy.”

“Thanks for – oh, _shit_ Cas, do that again. I didn’t meant it like that, dumbass. I want—” Dean’s hand comes up around his neck and Castiel tilts his head to make it easier for him; bares his throat, the way canines do when they want to demonstrate trust and submission. “I want to take care of you. When you were an angel you didn’t need me and when you lost your Grace I screwed everything up. But this time. . . Let me show how good this can be. But only if you want. Consent is sexy, right? I don’t want to—“

“So help me, Dean Winchester, if you say don’t want to _rush me_ after the last ten years _,_ the things I will do to you will make you wish I could still smite you.”

Dean laughs again but this one is dark, deep in his throat, and now Castiel knows he has no shred of angelic power left because otherwise his despicable, still very-much-buckled pants would have burst into flame. But Dean – his glorious, imperfectly-perfect man—threads the leather through the loop and pulls and then the belt is gone and there’s a tug on the button—

“Wait.” Even to Castiel’s own ears it’s a pathetic sound, something between a gasp and a whine. “Your wounds are far from healed. Any strenuous activity could tear the stitches.”

“Yeah, don’t care.”

“I still have your blood under my fingernails, Dean. I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Fine, we’ll keep it simple. But like, five minutes ago I had blood poisoning and maybe a death wish, and I think I deserve some good, old-fashioned life-affirming sex. So are you on board or not?”

Dean’s flippancy was irritating at the best of times, but right now it was infuriating. “Yes, Dean. I’m ‘on board.’”

“Holy shit, did you—did you seriously just _air quote having sex with me_? Damn it, come here, you beautiful freak!” And Dean yanks him closer before he can even put his hands back down. His pants and boxers are pushed down out of the way – that is _so_ much better – and then—

“Dean!”

“I’ve got you. It’s okay. Feels good, right?”

A moan stutters out of him more expressive than any of the words in his vast vocabulary. His notion that this experience would be somehow comparable to pleasuring himself leaves the room, the county, and quite possibly the solar system. His back arches hard enough to make his vertebrae pop and then a moment later he’s curling forward, falling into the nook between Dean’s shoulder and neck, his hips pulsing with the same rhythm Dean has set with his hand. Suddenly it’s not enough to be touching Dean’s waist, his shoulders, his hair. Castiel practically dives for Dean’s fly only to be swatted away. “Please. I need to—”

“I know,” Dean says, nothing but rasp in his voice now. “Not this time. There’s something, thought about it. Want to try. Just let me, okay?”

Okay. Okay. Anything, everything, is okay. “Please don’t stop.”

But Dean does stop, and it’s cruel, and awful, but it only lasts long enough for Dean to shove his jeans down his hips and then he’s raising himself up on his knees, slotting their bodies together again but even closer this time. Castiel had already felt Dean’s hardness grinding against his leg but to see it now, straining and leaking _for him_ , made his stomach clench and his mouth water. And then Dean gathers them both in his hand and everything that Castiel knew before this moment slides away like an avalanche. Each gasping breath ends in Dean’s name and he clings to his shoulders, pushing into his mouth for wet, frantic kisses. He snags Dean’s lower lip between his teeth and Dean moans and squirms but the more Castiel bites down, the faster Dean moves his hand, and. . .

“Dean. Dean, I’m going to—“

“It’s okay, Cas. I’ve got you. It’s okay,” Dean murmurs into his ear and leans in until their cheeks are touching, stubble to stubble; so much friction.

Castiel goes first, riding the crest of a wave that tosses him up, up and up and leaves him there, hanging, shuddering through it while the part of him still capable of thought carves this moment deep into his fickle human memory. Then Dean’s there with him, clutching and grasping, and when they fall, they fall together. Dean cups his face with warm, wet hands and kisses him like he’s been poisoned and Castiel’s mouth is the antidote.

The mattress is still a misery. Castiel is sweaty and sticky, there’s no shower, his shirt is ruined and he has no change of clothes. Dean’s lips are swollen and his eyes are filled with starlight, and even Castiel’s human eyes see straight through them to the untarnished brightness of his soul. It’s the happiest moment of his life.

“Uh… Cas?”

“Dean.” Cuddling? Nuzzling? These are things he gets to do now. He likes them.

“Dude, I’ve got to ask.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve seen you naked a few times before.”

“Not my finest moments.”

“That’s not – I mean, I knew what you were packing. So, is it my imagination, or. . .?” Dean flicks his fingers in the direction of Castiel’s sated cock.

He levers up for a better look and takes his time with his assessment, not that the change isn’t immediately apparent. “Chuck did say something about upgrades,” he tells Dean, thinking back on it now and recalling a bit of a Gabriel-esque smirk on his father’s face. “I thought he meant my singing voice.”

Dean’s mouth drops open and then he’s throwing his head back and roaring with laughter. Castiel can’t help but join him and laughs until his sides ache. Each time they manage to get themselves under control, something sets them off again until they’re too tired to do more than flop on the mattress, giggling together like idiots.

“Oh, man,” Dean finally sputters, and wipes at his streaming eyes before stretching down on his stomach, shoulders still quivering from time to time. His jeans have gone. . . somewhere. . . and Castiel has an unobstructed view of his spectacular ass. “So Chuck made you a new human body and sent you back, that it?”

“Yes. I’m fully human now. It wasn’t a punishment this time; it was my choice.”

“Your choice, huh? What was the alternative?”

Castiel strokes the sweat-damp hair back from Dean’s forehead; he should get up and shut the doors before Dean gets a chill. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Secrets bite us in the ass every time, Cas. You know that. Just spit it out. I can take it.”

“Chuck and Amara are going to create a new universe and they wanted me to go with them. They thought my perspective would be beneficial to their efforts.”

“Okay. Uh, that’s. . . pretty big, Cas. And you would have stayed an angel, then? The wings, the immortality, the full deluxe package?”

“No,” he answers. “I would have been far more powerful than a seraph. More powerful than an archangel, in fact.”

“Okay.” Dean swallows audibly and moves back a little. The new distance chills Castiel to the bone. “And you turned them down so you could come back here? Because of me?”

“Not entirely because of you,” says Castiel. “But yes, mostly. Does that trouble you?”

Dean rests his chin on his hands while he thinks it over. Castiel’s heart starts thumping again. He’s itching to take it all back, or at least downplay the magnitude of what he’s given up. But Dean is right; they’ll have to come to terms with this sooner or later.

“I think that’s why Chuck took so long to bring you back.” Dean repositions himself on his side and curls his arm around Castiel’s waist. “I’m not worthy of that kind of sacrifice. Heck, I don’t think anyone is. I couldn’t have handled it, even a month ago. I would have pushed you away.”

Castiel kisses him. He can’t _not_ kiss him. “I wouldn’t have let you. Not for that.”

“I know. And I would have kept pushing. We’re both a couple of stubborn bastards, Cas. You know how that would have ended up.”

“And now?”

Dean sighs. “I tried to move on; I really did. They kept tell me that’s what you would have wanted. I quit drinking. Started hunting again, after a while. Went off on my own so I could stop pretending like I was okay. But I wasn’t moving on.” He moves closer until his warm breath ghosts over Castiel’s chest. “It was more like, all the other things that had seemed so important before didn’t matter anymore. Time kind of chipped away at them, until the only thing I knew was that I needed you, and you weren’t here.”

Castiel pulls him in closer, needing more of his warmth. “And now I am.”

“Yep.”

“I won’t leave you again.”

“You will, though,” says Dean, and tilts his face up so that their lips are nearly touching again, “or I will. We’re both mortal; that’s how it ends. I don’t want—Cas, I can’t do that again.”

Castiel kisses away his frown. “I have a soul now. I’ll go where you go, and it won’t be the pit. I promise you that.”

“What, then? Heaven?” Dean kisses back, sliding his hand along Castiel’s jaw and keeping it there as if he’s afraid to let go. “That’s not good enough. I need the real you, not some wind-up version of you. You know how it works up there. They won’t let us be together.”

Castiel threads his arm under Dean’s shoulder and hauls him up until he can nuzzle – nuzzling is quite addictive, he’s discovering – into Dean’s neck. “It should be entertaining, watching the angels attempt to keep us apart.”

“Ha! You said it, Cas,” Dean agrees. “I’d like to see ‘em try.”

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't wait any more for my Dean/Cas reunion angst so I took matters into my own hands. The remaining two chapters are mostly written. I'll probably post Chapter 2 tomorrow and the last one later this week.  
> This is my first fan fic! Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.  
> UPDATE: Just fixed the italics when I realized they hadn't copied in.


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